


Where You Lead, I Will Follow

by Savoytruffle



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-13
Updated: 2011-02-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 22:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savoytruffle/pseuds/Savoytruffle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not like it <i>bothers</i> Jim that Bones is happy. Jim <i>wants</i> Bones to be happy. It’s just that Jim isn’t going to rest until he knows <i>what</i> is making Bones happy. And figures out a way to become a part of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where You Lead, I Will Follow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Janice_Lester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/gifts).



> Thanks to the lovely [](http://cordelianne.livejournal.com/profile)[**cordelianne**](http://cordelianne.livejournal.com/) for the beta. To the usual suspects for their encouragement. Slightly belated birthday present for the fabulous [](http://janice-lester.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://janice-lester.livejournal.com/)**janice_lester** , though what relation the final product bears to the list of likes and dislikes with which she provided me I cannot really say.

Something is up with Bones lately. 

Something that makes Bones smile sometimes when he thinks no one’s watching. Something that makes Bones stand up a little straighter and all but glide down the hallways. Something that makes Bones just a little bit more awesome in bed (which, by the way is pretty freakin’ awesome indeed).

Something is definitely up with Bones, and not that Jim is complaining or anything, but, well…

Because, okay, look, it’s not like they’re one of ‘those’ couples. You know, the kind that has to tell each other absolutely everything. Jim does not need to know what Bones ate for breakfast or what color socks he’s wearing or even every little thing Joanna told Bones on their last comm. 

It’s just that, well…Jim knows that Bones had oatmeal this morning, that he’s wearing the blue socks with the dark grey stripes, and that Jo and Jocelyn still can’t agree on the dress Jo’s going to wear to Cotillion even though they’ve tried on about a thousand and probably won’t make it through another ten without some kind of murder/suicide.

But it’s not like they _try_ to be one of those couples. 

They maintain an open relationship with the understanding that other partners are strictly casual. They make a very specific point of never finishing each other’s sentences (at least not in public). And they may have filled out the Starfleet partnership paperwork to help ensure they don’t get assigned to different ships, but they’ve opted not to exchange any traditional vows.

And yet, at the end the day, they’re out here in the black together and the ship’s just not that big.

 

_“It is that you are space married,” Chekov explained to them one embarrassing evening in the ship’s mess when Bones was nagging Jim to eat his vegetables and Jim was countering that he’d eat his vegetables once Bones gave up friend chicken and Bones was explaining that fried chicken was a Southern institution and that not eating it would be an unforgiveable crime against his ancestors and Jim was all…_

_Well, you get the picture._

_Bones paused in his inexplicable diatribe against false mint juleps to turn on Chekov. “What the hell’s_ space married _?”_

_“Okay,” Sulu said, jumping in, “like, what’s the most consecutive nights you two have spent apart since you met?”_

_“What does that have to do with anything?” Bones grumbled._

_Meanwhile, Jim was busy working his way back through the last ten years in his head._

_Plenty of single nights apart. Some all-nighters at the academy in the lab or in the library; the occasional (Bones would say typical) away mission gone wrong; the at-least-twice-yearly shipboard crisis that kept Jim on the bridge and Bones in medbay through the night._

_A few two-night stints. Two extended field sims in third-year; a couple away missions even Jim has to admit really went to shit; that terrible time that Bones was kidnapped by a group of admittedly righteous rebels whose leader was dying and Spock made Jim give up command after a little perfectly innocent speculation about how a single photon torpedo could totally decimate their refugee camp._

_“Three,” Jim concluded, finally._

_Bones had been presenting at a medical conference. Spock was taking emergency leave on New Vulcan. Jim couldn’t leave the ship._

_Four days, three nights._

_Jim couldn’t sleep for shit._

_“_ Aheh-spacemarried-ahum _,” Uhura coughed._

_Bones glared._

_“Don’t you all have shifts to be on?” Jim asked._

_The table of their so-called ‘friends’ dispersed._

 

So, anyway, it’s not like it _bothers_ Jim that Bones is happy. 

Jim _wants_ Bones to be happy.

It’s just that Jim isn’t going to rest until he knows _what_ is making Bones happy. 

And figures out a way to become a part of it.

 

Jim has, of course, eliminated the obvious. 

At first he thought it was the prospect of seeing Joanna so soon. They’re only four weeks away from Earth now and the required refits come at a time when they’re all due a good three weeks of leave. 

The timing also happens to coincide with the date of Jo’s debutante ball. To hear Bones speak of the event, it’s nothing but a foolish and antiquated waste of credits that Joanna doesn’t really care about and wouldn’t even have to go through if Jocelyn hadn’t finally managed to marry ‘up.’ 

Bones _claims_ he’s only going to keep Jo from being brainwashed, but he’s missed as many of her birthdays as he’s made, including her most recent sweet sixteen, and Jim knows Bones is just looking forward to being there for _something_. 

Which _would_ explain the good mood, but doesn’t quite account for the bodily changes, the way Bones suddenly seems more settled in his own skin.

Jim’s next thought was that Bones had finally gotten something going with that Lieutenant from Engineering he’s had his eye on. 

But Bones would _tell_ Jim about that. (Ideally, in extensive detail, though Bones often insists on being a ‘gentleman’ about these things and thereby ruining all Jim’s fun.)

If it’s not personal, though, then it should be professional, but Jim’s not just the boyfriend, he’s the freakin’ captain, which means he would _know_.

Which brings him right on back to the same place.

Which place is staring down at his PADD, on which he’s overlaid Bones’ schedule for the next week with his own in order to determine each and every hour during which Bones is free and Jim is occupied. 

He exports the list of times.

 

“You remember the modification I made to the plasma injectors when things went wrong with the Danikians?” Scotty asks, mimicking his actions in the crisis with a series of grand gesticulations as they circle the warp engines.

The Danikians. Jim can _almost_ smile about that one now. “Sure,” he says.

“Well, I've been working with some warp engineers back at HQ and we've finally figured a way to make the mods permanent without that little...er...side effect.”

“You mean that thing where it exploded in your face the next day and Bones read you the riot act, even though you had just saved all of our lives?” And, okay, yeah, Jim _is_ ready to smile about _that_.

“That’d be the one.” Scotty grins back and then points them in the direction of a power transfer conduit. “Now the other major change we’ll be seeing—” 

Jim’s PADD beeps. 

Jim glances down at it, then back at Scotty. “Oh, hey, hold on a sec.” He wanders off about ten meters and pulls out his comm. “Kirk to McCoy,” he says.

 _“Damn it, Jim,”_ Bones answers (in lieu of something normal like ‘McCoy here’ or ‘Oh, Captain, my sexy captain, how may I serve?’ – which, okay, would not be normal exactly, but _would_ be awesome), _“what’ve you and Scotty blown up now?”_

“Chill, Bones, nothing,” Jim answers absently, busy trying to identify that faint noise he’s hearing in the background. It sounds like music, actually, but nothing Jim’s heard Bones listen to before. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

There’s a skeptical pause at the other end of the line. _“What d’you want, Jim?”_

“Geez, Bones, can’t a guy just call to say hey?”

_“Not if he’s you.”_

“I’m wounded.”

_“I’m waiting.”_

“And I’m hanging up now since you obviously don’t want to talk to me,” Jim says, pouting for good measure, even though Bones won’t get to appreciate the dead sexiness of the expression.

 _“Uh huh.”_ Bones, as always, sounds unimpressed. _“See you for dinner?”_

“Yeah,” Jim says. “Kirk out.”

Jim stands still for a moment, trying to figure out what he may have learned. 

Really, he’s got nothing.

He walks back over to Scotty.

“Free association,” he says. “I say ‘music,’ you think…?”

“Dancing,” Scotty says, without hesitation.

 _Huh._ Jim considers this for a moment, then shakes his head. _No way_. 

He shrugs. 

“So, anyway,” he says, “what _do_ you crazy kids have planned for my poor power transfer conduit?” 

 

“One of these days...” Jim warns, blocking and retreating as Sulu and his sabre advance.

“Yeah, right, Kirk.” Sulu, as usual, barely looks like he’s breaking a sweat. “I've heard that one before.”

“I'm totally getting better,” Jim says as his back hits the wall.

The side of Sulu's blade sweeps right across Jim’s chest, setting off the alarm on Jim’s vest which heralds his defeat. 

“Huh,” Sulu says, lifting up his mask, “I hadn't noticed.”

“Fuck you,” Jim laughs, lifting his own mask.

Across the room, Jim's PADD beeps and Jim snaps to alert.

“Computer,” he says, “location of Doctor McCoy.”

_“Doctor McCoy is currently located in Recreation Room F on Deck Six.”_

“Ooh!” Jim’s eyes widen with excitement. “That's right down the hall.”

“Jim?” Sulu queries.

 _“Correction,”_ the computer amends, _“Doctor McCoy is currently leaving Recreation Room F on Deck Six.”_

“Quick!” Jim drops his sabre and grabs Sulu's arm, dragging him out into the hall.

“What the hell?”

“Shhhh,” Jim says, casting furtive glances up and down the hallway. “Be cool.”

“What're you—?”

“So,” Jim says loudly, “great work steering us through that ion storm the other day.”

Sulu frowns. “That was like three weeks ago.”

“Still,” Jim says, “really awesome job. I mean—Oh, hey, Bones! Hey, Uhura! Fancy meeting you here.” Jim lifts his arm to lean against the wall, casual like. “What's up?”

Bones regards Jim with something between mild suspicion and mild annoyance. 

It's a look Jim knows well.

“Jim,” Bones greets, slowly. “Sulu.”

Sulu looks between Jim and Bones like he doesn’t even _want_ to know what they’re up to and then turns to Uhura. “Hey, Nyota, how’s it going?”

“Very well,” Uhura answers. “How’re you?”

“Sulu and I were just having a little fencing practice,” Jim interjects.

Bones rolls his eyes. “We know. You’ve only been doing it every week for about five years.”

Jim ignores this and turns to Uhura. “And what have you two been up to?” he asks, all smooth and stuff, like he totally doesn’t even care about the answer.

Only _Uhura_ doesn’t answer, she keeps her mouth shut and looks over at Bones and it’s Bones who says, “We were just about to catch dinner in the mess. Care to join us?”

And Sulu says yes and Jim knows that Bones did that on purpose, but Jim’s got no choice but to back off and bide his time.

Of course, if Bones thinks that’s just going to be the end of it, then he’s got a lot to learn about Jim Kirk.

 

Jim is sitting in his ready room when his PADD beeps again. Approximately two minutes ago, Spock commed to say that his arrival at their weekly briefing had been delayed precisely eight-point-five-nine minutes, which gives Jim about six and a half minutes to figure out what Bones is doing right now.

“Computer,” Jim says, “location of Doctor McCoy.”

_“Doctor McCoy is currently located in Recreation Room F on Deck Six.”_

“Computer,” Jim says, testing a theory, “location of Lieutenant Uhura.”

_“Lieutenant Uhura is currently located in Recreation Room F on Deck Six.”_

Jim grins. _Aha!_ “Computer, display visual feed of Rec Room F, Deck Six.”

_“You are not authorized to view a visual feed of Recreation Room F, Deck Six at this time.”_

Jim frowns. “But I’m the captain,” he says.

 _“Confirmed,”_ the computer replies.

Jim rolls his eyes. “Computer, _why_ am I not authorized to view the visual feed of Rec Room F, Deck Six?”

_“Privacy Statute Number 128, subsection B12 forbids access to visual feeds of any private space on a Starfleet vessel whose occupants are not presently engaged in suspicious or illegal activities.”_

“Since when is a rec room a private space?”

_“Recreation rooms are considered private spaces once they are occupied.”_

“Okay, well, tell me this: How do _you_ know that Doctor McCoy and Lieutenant Uhura _aren’t_ engaged in illegal activities?”

_“When a visual feed is requested, I am programmed to check for a variety of suspicious and illegal activities.”_

“Yeah, but what if the illegal activity they’re currently engaged in is one that you’re not programmed to detect?” Jim asks. “One that only _I_ would recognize?”

 _“In that event, Privacy Statute Number 128, subsection C5 allows you to override the access restriction using the authorization codes of two senior officers,”_ the computer informs him.

 _Yeah, right,_ Jim thinks, _like Spock’s gonna go for that_.

“Computer,” Jim says, in his very most sincere voice, “the things is, I’m worried that Doctor McCoy and Lieutenant Uhura may be in medical danger.”

_“Both Doctor McCoy’s and Lieutenant Uhura’s vital signs are well within the acceptable range for engagement in moderate exercise.”_

“Aha!” Jim says. “So you admit they’re both engaged in a form of moderate exercise!”

The computer neither confirms nor denies this deduction.

Jim decides to take a new tact. 

“Computer,” he says, “please describe the basic specifications of Rec Room F, Deck Six when unoccupied.”

_“Recreation Room F, Deck Six is six meters by four meters in size and is equipped with laminate flooring, three mirrored walls and a six-meter ballet barre in genuine wood placed at a height of one meter along the starboard wall.”_

Okay, Jim’s got a mental picture. Now… “Computer, what sorts of activities might two average people want to do in that kind of room?”

_“There are 1,732 known recreational pursuits for which Recreation Room F, Deck Six may be recommended. They are, in order of current popularity: yoga, Cardassian ping pong, ballet, capoeira, karate, pilates, Andorian breakdancing, cardio salsa, tap dance, Vulcan mediation, yogalates, zumba, ballroom dancing, tai chi, judo, Tellarite leg wrestling—”_

The door chime sounds.

Jim sighs. This is going nowhere fast. “Computer, pause list,” he says, then, “Enter.”

Spock walks in, pauses in front of Jim’s desk, and nods. “Captain.”

“Hold on a sec, Spock, I’m in the middle of something,” Jim says, considering his next move. “Okay, computer, what time are Doc—Wait, forget I said that.” Jim pauses and prepares a rephrase. “Computer,” he says slowly, “suppose I wanted to reserve the use of Rec Room F on Deck Six as soon as possible – what time would it be available?”

_“Recreation Room F on Deck Six will become available at 1900 hours.”_

Jim checks the chronometer. 1842.

He jumps up from his chair. “Okay, Spock, let’s walk and talk. I need to catch Bones and Uhura before they leave the rec room.”

“I do not understand, Captain,” Spock says as they make their way out of the ready room and across the bridge. “If you possess an urgent need to speak with Doctor McCoy and Lieutenant Uhura, why do you not simply open a comm channel? Particularly given that we are supposed to be conducting our weekly briefing in your ready room.”

“I don’t need to _talk_ to them,” Jim explains, stepping into the turbolift. “I need to _see_ them.”

“You do not think it would be more logical to wait until we have finished our briefing and they have finished their dance lesson?”

“No,” Jim says, “I need to catch them _before_ they—” Jim stops, blinks. “Wait a minute, did you just say ‘ _their dance lesson_ ’?”

“Yes,” Spock says, “I believe they intended to work on the quickstep and the cha-cha during this session.”

“Quickstep?” Jim repeats dumbly. “Cha-cha?”

“Yes, Captain. They are traditional Terran dances typically categorized under the label ballroom.”

“I know what they _are_ ,” Jim says. “I just…I mean…how long has this been going on?”

“Forty-two days.” 

Jim boggles. “You’ve known about this for forty-two days?”

“I have known about this for forty-five days. Nyota informed me after Doctor McCoy approached her asking for help learning to dance for his daughter’s cotillion.” Spock tilts his head. “I find it most interesting that you appear not to have been aware of this project.”

“You and me both,” Jim mutters.

“You and Doctor McCoy are frequently described by crew members as ‘living in each other’s pockets,’ which colloquialism I understand to indicate a level of personal intimacy that involves little to no physical, mental or emotional privacy.”

“Not helping,” Jim says.

“The turbolift is not moving,” Spock points out. “Did you still wish to go to Deck Six?”

“Oh, no,” Jim says. “We’ve got work to do.”

 

Spock probably thought Jim meant _ship’s_ work.

Vulcans are foolish that way.

 

“Ow, damn it, stop stepping on my feet.” Jim looks up from said feet to glare into Spock’s impassive face.

“I would not step on your feet if you did not leave them in my way,” Spock says. “I believe it would also help if you kept more tension in your arms.”

Jim _does_ tighten up his frame, pressing his right palm into Spock’s left and making sure his left hand doesn’t lie too heavily on Spock’s right shoulder, but... “There is no way _you_ stepping on _my_ feet is _my_ fault.”

Spock makes a renewed attempt at the turning box step. “As you are the one who has insisted not only that we learn to dance, but also that we do so without the guidance of a perfectly capable teacher,” he says, “it follows logically that the responsibility for anything that occurs in the context of these efforts lies with you.”

Jim sighs. “I’ve told you. If Uhura was teaching us, that would ruin the surprise. Trust me, when she finds out you taught yourself to dance for her, she is going to jump you _so_ hard…”

Spock, naturally, chooses not to respond to this statement and Jim briefly gets lost in a very vivid private fantasy about how hard _Bones_ will be jumping _Jim_ once Jim is as awesome at dancing as he is at everything else.

Then, suddenly, Jim looks up and realizes that while his mind was otherwise occupied he and Spock somehow managed a complete circuit of the room. They’re actually _waltzing_.

“We’re dancing!” Jim cries, looking up into Spock’s eyes only to catch the particular non-expression that Spock wears when he’s received TMI. 

Jim thinks this is kind of a silly overreaction to the mere _mention_ of Uhura jumping Spock…until Jim realizes that, with the way his hand is clasped in Spock’s, Jim’s very vivid fantasy probably wasn’t so private, after all.

Jim’s feet stop.

Spock steps on them.

“Ow,” Jim blusters to cover up his embarrassment, releasing his hold and putting a bit of space between them. “You could apologize, you know.”

“Had you yourself taken the time to review the collection of holovids you insisted that I study in preparation for this undertaking, you would know that I have nothing for which to apologize,” Spock states primly, the joy of scolding Jim clearly overriding his own embarrassment. 

“I watched the vids!” Jim says. “Mostly.”

“Computer,” Spock says, “project holovid number JTK-4018-397 beginning four minutes and nineteen seconds into playback.”

The image of a twenty-first century human woman with brassy red hair and remarkable posture, dressed in a pink leotard and a long black skirt, appears at the far wall of the room.

 _“Now, ladies,”_ she says, speaking with a refined Southern lilt, _“though I know we love to blame the man – and he will no doubt have a lot to answer for before our lessons are through – it is important to understand that it is your job to move your feet out of his way. As the leader, his body will tell you where to go. Ladies, you must listen to his body.”_

“Computer,” Jim says, “discontinue playback.”

Spock’s face adopts that smugly non-smug expression that Jim hates (or secretly hates that he can’t pull off himself). 

“Computer, a waltz, 70 beats per minute,” Spock orders, lifting his arms back into position. “Remember, Jim, you must listen to my body.”

Jim sighs, lifts his own arms, and steps into Spock’s dance frame.

 

Spock, it turns out, possesses an obnoxiously natural talent for the smooth dances, and Jim and his ego give serious thought to throwing in the towel.

Then they start on the Latin.

 

Spock does a back check, leading into a fan. Jim steps across Spock, turns and steps back, facing Spock again. He brings his feet together with a twist of his hips and…

“Computer,” Jim says. “Pause music.” He looks at Spock and shakes his head. “It’s just not sexy.”

“I fail to see how that is relevant,” Spock says.

Jim rolls his eyes. “Which goes a long way in explaining why you can’t rumba worth shit.” He sighs and tries a different tact. “Look, the technique calls for hip action, right? So just try it. Like this.” Jim executes a pair of cucarachas, rolling his hips in a figure eight. “Now you try.”

To his credit, Spock _does_ try.

(Back in his academy days, Jim once spent an evening drinking at a retro kitsch cowboy bar, in the center of which sat a functioning twentieth century mechanical bull. After a few drinks, Jim tried his hand at riding it and did respectably. It was a fun night. Unfortunately, Jim thinks that if that mechanical bull tried to do a pair of cucarachas, it would look a lot like what he just saw.)

“Um, okay, then,” Jim says. “You stay right there. Computer, resume music.”

Jim walks around behind Spock, places a hand on each of Spock’s hips and begins to move them manually in time with his own hips and the music.

“When you tell Uhura about how you learned to dance for her,” Jim says, “you should probably leave this part out.”

“Agreed,” Spock says.

 

By the end of the first week, Jim realizes that there’s no way Bones needed forty-two days of dance lessons to learn how to waltz with his daughter at her cotillion.

By the end of the second week, Jim’s starting to see why, once Bones started, he couldn’t seem to stop. The whole process is totally frustrating, but oddly seductive – not unlike Bones himself – and Jim is discovering muscles and movements of his body he never knew existed before.

By the end of the third week, Jim is a total convert. He and Spock are conducting all their ship’s business in the rec room and in each other’s arms. (Which, okay, is a little weird if you think about it, but surprisingly asexual.)

Meanwhile, the sex with Bones?

Fan-fucking-tastic.

All those muscles and movements Jim’s just discovered? 

Good for a whole lot more than the dance floor.

But it goes beyond a few new hip twists. Jim’s learned something about reading a partner’s signals, about going with the flow. He’s learned how to control himself without controlling the action. And with Bones, it’s just so easy.

So natural.

Jim can’t wait until they land in Georgia. He just knows they’re going to be _amazing_ together on the dance floor.

 

Starship captains don’t cry, Jim reminds himself.

Not unless you punch and kick them very, very hard. 

Repeatedly.

Well, not even then, if they can help it.

And certainly not just from the sight of the little girl they’ve watched grow up for the past ten years (if mostly from afar) descending the grand staircase in her long white gown with her head held high, looking every inch the dignified young woman.

It does not help that Jim can see Bones tearing up next to him.

He squeezes Bones’ hand under the table as Joanna reaches the bottom of the stairs and her escort – another young woman dressed in a smart white tuxedo jacket – leads her off to stand at the edge of the dance floor. Just before she reaches the place where she’s supposed to stand, Joanna looks straight at her father and pulls a decidedly undignified face, complete with her dad’s signature eyebrow raise.

Jim squeezes Bones’ hand again, this time to keep himself from laughing his ass off.

Bones is also smothering a grin, and if a bit of moisture appears at the edges of Jim’s eyes, well, it’s only the repressed laughter, nothing more.

Which, okay, doesn’t go _quite_ as far in explaining why the moisture reappears twenty minutes later. You know, around about the time that Bones joins the other parents on the dance floor and guides his daughter through a tender (and technically quite solid) waltz. 

But, hey, even a Starfleet captain is only human.

 

Jocelyn ends up taking the next dance with Bones, and Jim knows that life is easier for everyone when the two of them forget about being exes and remember to be friends, so he doesn’t mind too much.

Especially since Jocelyn’s heel turn is nowhere near as good as Jim’s.

Jim becomes less patient, however, when Bones, on his way back to their table, winds up trapped in an awkward conversation with two of Jocelyn’s aunts. After two whole songs pass – two songs Jim totally knew how to dance to – Jim decides it’s time to stage a rescue mission.

He catches the early strains of a foxtrot as he approaches the group. He walks up and places a hand on Bones’ shoulder, flashing his best smile. “Excuse me, ladies, mind if I steal him away for a few minutes? They’re playing our song.”

Of course, they don’t actually _have_ a song, but Jim figures this one is as good as any.

_I was walkin' along_  
_Minding my business_  
_When out of an orange colored sky_  
_Flash! Bam! Alakazam!_  
_Wonderful you came by._

Maybe better. 

“Thanks, Jim,” Bones says, once they’re safely out of earshot. “I thought I’d never escape.”

He starts to head in the direction of their table, but Jim grabs his arm and steers him toward the dance floor. “We can’t sit down now,” Jim says. “I told them this was our song.”

“We don’t have a song,” Bones says.

Jim smiles. “We could.” 

When they reach the dance floor, Bones takes Jim in a low informal hold and starts them in a shuffling box-step.

“Aw, come on,” Jim says, “I know Uhura taught you better than that.”

“You…? But how…?” Bones just blinks at him for a moment, then sighs. “I just didn’t want to look like a fool out there.”

“I know,” Jim says. “So, come on,” he lifts his arms into dance frame, bringing Bones’ with them, “show me what you’ve got.”

Bones hesitates. “But you don’t know how…”

Jim looks him straight in the eye. “Try me.”

 

_I was walking along, minding my business,_  
_When love came and hit me in the eye..._  
_Flash! Bam! Alakazam!_  
_And good-bye._

 

**Fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> [Click here to see people dancing the foxtrot to Natalie Cole's "Orange-Colored Sky"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bTjv9APyzdc)


End file.
